


silhouettes of you

by wrtchedwolf



Series: oh, calamity (draco + harry) [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, M/M, Mostly Canon Compliant, Prompt Fill, Psychological Trauma, References to Depression, mentions of injury
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-16
Updated: 2019-08-16
Packaged: 2020-09-02 00:23:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,183
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20266978
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wrtchedwolf/pseuds/wrtchedwolf
Summary: He wasn’t a fool. He knew the war changed them all in ways that couldn’t be explained, but also in ways that were similar to people who had been on opposing sides. There was no line to draw for pain; no differences between people who fought for others and people who fought for themselves. In the end, they all shared the same kind of torment.Loss.That, he could understand.





	silhouettes of you

**Author's Note:**

> (title from silhouettes of you by isaac gracie)
> 
> based on the prompt:
> 
> Person C: Have you ever gotten your heart broken?  
Person B: Yeah. Everyday.  
Person C: Really? How so?  
Person B: *Looks at A's old photograph* They never knew how much I loved them until it was too late. I was too late.
> 
> (senpaicakes.tumblr.com)

Draco Malfoy’s Saturday night began in The Hog’s Head—not the best pub, by any means, but easier to blend into the background of—where his own dangled into a half-empty glass of firewhisky and coke, eyes cutting into the bottom of the amber-stained glass.

Tentative fingers curled around the glass, seeking the stability of a solid object underneath his fingertips. The glass whined, threatening to shatter against his grip. It wouldn’t be the first time. Often, he found himself like this; stuck in past memories, wondering at a past lifetime and forest green eyes that held all the intensity of a roaring lion; at screeching shadows and an empty, dusty closet fallen into disrepair.

Sometimes, he couldn’t stop _thinking_, driving him here, where the vultures that preyed on the spiderwebbing cracks of his sanity weren’t able to slip past the doors. For all the darkness The Hog’s Head held, some monsters would never be allowed inside its walls. _Others_ were still unwelcome.

Around him, the world moved at a jolly rhythm despite the late hour. Folks played wizard’s chess and muggle cards at scattered tables behind him. Others sat around and chatted, their cheery voices resonating through the space and adding warmth to the fire that burned in the hearth at the front of the room. Alcohol tinted their cheeks rosy pink. A few customers slinked around in the shadows so as to not draw attention to themselves, dark, indistinguishable cloaks pulled low over their heads. No one tried to come up to him, knowing damn well who he was, but every so often he attracted low sneers and lingering glowers. _“Malfoy,” _a balding man cursed under his breath as he slid onto the barstool next to Draco and recognized his face, quickly vacating it in favor of a booth on the other side of the room. The man’s eyes stayed on him for most of the night.

Everyone stared. He was used to constantly being uncomfortable under their scrutiny, but damnit, couldn’t they allow him a single night of peace once in a while? Every single nerve in his body was on edge. One hand was an inch away from grasping his wand at all times, the other prepared to slam someone’s spine against the bar if need arose.

Potter had been spotted on an outing again last night in the _Daily Prophet_, this time with a man on his arm. Draco spat his milk back out into his bowl when he’d read the headline—_Potter’s Prince? Every Woman’s Fairytale Come to An End!_ —and his mood instantly soured. Unable to stop himself, as per usual when it came to the subject of Harry Potter, he read the article attached to it.

_Sorry, ladies! If you were scrabbling for a chance of a night out with Wizarding World’s Most Eligible Bachelor, you mustn’t look any further. He’s out with the old and in with the new. What’s new, you ask? Only that the Chosen One has chosen—men!! On September 13th, Harry Potter, 21, was seen linked arms, hands, and lips with Prophet sweetheart, Lee Jordan. (Continue reading on page 8)_

He was a whole other beast entirely separate from the vultures that wanted his black blood that oozed through his veins from a scalded heart. The only beast that managed to slink through every door and barricade he put up, mental or physical. Bloody, blasted _Potter_, with his toad-green eyes and idiotic savior complex that put everyone else’s life before his own, as if his meant nothing. With his incessant need to stick his soft nose in everybody’s business, even if it didn’t concern him, flaunting his do-gooder attitude to those with personalities less fortunate than he. Stubborn, handsome _berk_.

Gripping his glass with a little more force, he brought it to his lips and took a hearty swig, tipping it back until the last of it trailed fire down his throat, causing him to splutter out a smoky cough or two as he set it back down. He stared forward, grey eyes boiling crimson.

For a moment, he entertained the idea of Potter seeing him now, Dark Mark permanently engraved on his skin. Draco kept it covered, though he didn’t used to. He had been driven wild with loyalty to his parents and fear of the Dark Lord, flaunting the tattoo in the presence of Death Eaters and Purebloods alike. Once, he tore his sleeve open and showed the Golden Boy himself, right before that same boy gave him the scars on his chest. He wondered if Potter would sneer at him like the others, or if he’d stare at it with his ridiculously green eyes, unable to break away. In sixth year, he never stopped staring. Maybe he’d finish the spell that had almost killed Draco, hissing _you’re dead to me, Malfoy._

He wondered which would hurt more.

The Dark Lord had invaded his home and took every ounce; every last scrap of the safety he’d mustered over the years in the Manor. He’d stained Draco’s private chambers with the stench of iron and darkness that dug so deep no amount of vigorous hand scrubbing or cleaning charms could erase the lingering trace he’d left behind. The Manor was a wretched prison filled with his peaceless ancestors’ corporeal forms roaming around, looking for someone to spit their hatred upon—but worse, it was a pensieve filled to the brim with all of Draco’s terror and cowardice.

He thought Potter’s words would hurt him more than that place or that monster ever had.

His torso ached with a vigor that hardened his breathing. Outside, clothes clung to passersby sweat-damp skin, muggy; the evening overcast as clouds dragged with the promise of rain. He always ached when it rained. The magic Snape had used to stop Draco’s bleeding after he was hit, combined with the gentle healing spells Madame Pomfrey performed on him afterwards had never quite been enough to rid him of the lingering pain from the residual magic, the spell so powerful not even the most skilled of healers could rid him of it all. Thin, silvery scars slashed across the otherwise smooth expanse of his skin.

Thankfully, the alcohol building in his system blurred the throb enough that it became hardly noticeable. Though it wasn’t quite enough to rid him of the reflection of Potter in the bathroom mirror, staring at Draco with an equal mix of confusion and hatred, so angry at him for things he was angry at himself for.

Each time Draco blinked, he conjured up another image from the past, all the while chasing an Obliviate spell to the bottom of his glass, wondering why in the hell you weren’t able to cast it on yourself. He hastily ordered another drink, seeing an open sky behind his clouded eyes, feeling the smooth wood of his Firebolt underneath him, watching as a red-clad figure fell from the sky like a drop of blood. His chest throbbed again, but not from any physical wound.

A drink landed in front of him. He downed it quicker than the last and ordered another one, throat constricting. The pub maid slid him another one with sad, worried eyes. She was mindful enough to know not to ask of his troubles, but empathetic enough to hesitate in reluctance to fuel his alcoholic habits. With long, straw-colored hair tied back in a bun and crow’s feet around dark eyes, she reminded Draco of a kinder version of his mother. A version of his mother that could have been, if she had not married Lucius Malfoy and followed him into the depths of doom.

He was just a boy when his family had fallen apart. Still was, only two years after the war. Despite how much he hated them for not protecting him, for grooming him to become the Dark Lord’s errand boy with the same sick, power-hungry ideals, the part of him—a small part, albeit—that was still a boy missed his parents when he thought of them. He still craved their acceptance and their skewed version of love, if only it meant that he was no longer alone in this world he and his parents made sure he wouldn’t be welcome in.

Draco shut his eyes tight against the sudden onslaught of sickness. Under his breath, he muttered _he can’t control you anymore._

Again. _They can’t control you._

Again. _You are not what they tried to make you._

Again. _You are not that little boy anymore._

Suddenly, a hand was at his shoulder, and his mind snapped back into place, shimmering eyes blown wide. The world rushed back in, and his head filled with noise and the sound of someone asking if he was okay.

Rapidly, he blinked, dispelling the wetness from his eyes. He hadn’t even realized he’d been crying.

He turned, and Remus Lupin stood next to him, hand away from Draco’s shoulder but still raised, a worried frown upon his face. The jagged scar that ran across his face from temple to jaw roughly opposed the open warmth in his amber eyes. Draco looked away.

“Fine, sir,” he replied stiffly, accepting yet another glass from the gentle pub maid. A smile shone in her eyes, crinkling the corners, but her mouth remained unmoved.

“Are you done calling me ‘sir,’ Draco, if I may?” Lupin asked, gesturing to the stool beside him.

_No_ was always his first thought, but despite badly wanting to decline and tell him to find somewhere else to sit, he reluctantly nodded an invitation. “By all means,” he answered dryly.

Lupin only chuckled, ordering a butterbeer and some type of Muggle beer. Draco had tried it once but found the flavor too watered down and cheap for his tastes.

Their relationship was certainly an odd sort. During Lupin’s time as a professor, Draco hadn’t been particularly kind towards him, as he harbored a specific affinity for stubborn-headed Gryffindors with untamable hair and dumb glasses that would be _completely _unneeded if he _just cast a simple repair charm, for Merlin’s sake. What was the point?_

After Draco began frequenting the pub, he found Lupin was there most nights, too, though consuming his alcohol at a more sedate, unhurried pace than he. For the most part, he ignored the man. It was easy. But then Lupin began to come up to the bar, sitting several seats away and casting curious glances his way every so often. Like someone else he knew, Lupin didn’t know when to quit so, naturally, he finally approached Draco. It was odd, and awkward, and Draco still didn’t fully understand it.

Lupin reminded him of a theoretical estranged uncle who cut himself off from his blood relatives to live amongst Muggles and integrate into their culture but decided to return to the Wizarding world many, many years later when Draco had already grown up and their opportunity for an uncle-nephew companionship had passed, but it didn’t stop Lupin from trying. It was _weird_, but mercifully less uncomfortable than it had been a few months ago. They moved on from the pub to the various stores in Hogsmeade, even traveling as far as Diagon Alley once to try out a new Asian-Greek fusion restaurant. The company was pleasant, if nothing else.

In the corner of the bar, a Muggle television was set on the counter, angled towards the tables and the rest of the bar for anyone to watch. A few people chuckled at it, but he found the obnoxiously-drawn characters annoying and utterly uninteresting. Lupin’s eyes strayed to it every once in a while, an odd smile hinting upon his face.

They sat in relatively companionable silence for a while, Lupin sipping between his beers and Draco sucking back the liquor with the severity of a parched man in the desert. It warmed his insides, the burn soothing blue veins.

He leaned against the bar for support, elbows resting on top. The roaring intermingling of voices faded to a soft buzzing, like an annoying fly, muffled by the pleasant numbness that spread through him.

“How are you, Draco?” asked the quiet ex-professor, breaking their peaceful silence.

“Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day, Professor?” grunted Draco, just to get a rise out of him.

He wasn’t well-versed in Muggle texts, lacking interest in false indulgences, but only a remote few would be able to outrun Shakespeare in modern London. Naturally, he knew Lupin would understand. His nose quite literally got stuck to the pages of books—nonfiction, mostly, but Draco noted a few fictional romance novels scattered in there—between classes and before their weekly dinners as he awaited Draco’s arrival. The next one which would be tomorrow.

He remained quiet after that, though, to his surprise. The excitement that arose within Draco from the prospect of having a good bicker died. Of course, Lupin had never been much of a fighter, not the Draco knew. Not until–well. They were all fighters at one point, weren’t they?

Draco looked sideways at him, observing. Lupin’s hair had a rough, tangled quality to it that it never used to have, likely a product of too much time spent running fingers through it and not enough time showering. His skin was withered, twisted and wrinkling in a painfully old way that went well beyond Lupin’s years. Not long ago, he had been twenty, thirty years younger than he was now. Even his eyes were weathered and grey, just like Draco’s. His throat bobbed, his lips moved, but Draco waited, and he didn’t say anything. He simply stared into the distance with a look that reminded Draco all too well of vultures circling.

He wasn’t a fool. He knew the war changed them all in ways that couldn’t be explained, but also in ways that were similar to people who had been on opposing sides. There was no line to draw for pain; no differences between people who fought for others and people who fought for themselves. In the end, they all shared the same kind of torment.

Loss.

That, he could understand.

“How–how are you, Remus?” Draco blurted, surprising even himself. He wasn’t someone to linger on pleasantries.

Lupin raised his brows behind his glass, in doing so taking a large gulp of his alcoholic beer. When he set it back down, he turned to Draco and looked at him, long and hard.

“Coping,” Lupin said simply, then gestured to Draco’s fifth or sixth drink. “I suspect we are the same in that regard tonight.”

His fingers reflexively clutched the glass, leveling him with the same intense stare. Something was different about him tonight. Lupin knew Draco drank most nights. “It seems we are.”

To that, Lupin smiled faintly. His eyes crinkled at the corners unkindly. Such grief did not suit him, Draco thought. He wore it the way a rope wore an anchor: tied around a heavy weight, dragged down into dark pits only to be brought up momentarily before it was dragged below again, a never-ending cycle of fleeting heights and bottomless depths.

“What is it you swallow tonight?” The wilting Lupin asked, gesturing to the glass.

“Firewhisky” came Draco’s automatic response before he paused too late and realized that was not what he meant. Lupin was always secretively obvious like that, he surmised, which was a tad annoying. During DADA lessons, he veiled the truth of the lesson behind vague hints until the grand reveal at the end of class.

Draco dropped his gaze to the faded blue of Lupin’s jumper, and then to the bar in front of him. Courage had never been his strong suit. He was a renowned coward; terrified of disappointing his father. Terrified that he would never be as good as Potter. Terrified that his hands would be the cause of someone’s death whether by wand or fist. Terrified of the Dark Lord. Terrified of himself. Terrified of his own death. His cowardice led to the deaths of innocent Muggles and his classmates. His cowardice led to the death of Potter’s godfather.

It had been his fault.

Everything that happened to Potter, to his friends, to Crabbe, it was _his _fault. His _family’s _fault because without them, the Dark Lord may never have risen again.

_Fuck_, he thought miserably. _Fuck_.

Draco jerked his head away, wiping his damp face on his sleeve and pretending as if he hadn’t been crying. In the calamity of the Hog’s Head, nobody noticed him hunched over the bar, unable to look Lupin in the eyes.

His head hurt. It wasn’t fair, that he was drinking to forget yet all he seemed to be doing was remembering.

“Draco,” Lupin said softly, touching a hand lightly to his arm.

He ripped away, leaning as far to the left as he could. “Don’t,” he whispered. “Don’t.”

Lupin retracted his hand and settled back into his seat. Draco let out a shaky exhale of relief.

What a goddamn coward he was, indeed.

The seconds stretched into minutes, then hours. Customers came and went. As he drank, taking slow sips so as to prolong the activity and give him something to do other than just sit, he wondered if he should just get up and leave. After all, no matter his weekly outings with Lupin, he owed the man nothing.

Then, Lupin began to shuffle. At first glance, it seemed he was getting up to leave, and the tension in Draco’s shoulders began to drain happily away. However, when he stood up momentarily it was to dig something out of his pocket.

He sat back down and unfolded it with gentle care, as if it alone was the most precious thing in the world. It was a yellowed photograph, crinkled and worn with age, but from Draco’s angle he couldn’t tell of what, or who.

Lupin looked down at it for a long while. His eyes glazed over, pulled back into the past of a memory only he carried. A morose smile split his lips, betraying the melancholy that wavered underneath his skin. Underneath the warm lighting, his skin visibly paled.

He looked, all too much, like he had seen a ghost.

Time passed—Draco wasn’t sure how long, only that it was enough for his head to start spinning and his heart ache with a sadness that mimicked the longing in Lupin’s eyes—and eventually, Lupin found his words again.

“Have you ever gotten your heart broken, Draco?”

He said it so quietly, Draco had to strain to catch it.

For a moment, the orange glow of the Hog’s Head burned green, and crimson blood pooled around his feet. He blinked rapidly to dispel it, stomach heaving with a sickening churn.

Draco wasn’t sure what compelled him—the alcohol or the iron taste of the memories or Lupin’s soft, pliant words and vulnerable eyes—but he replied, equally as quiet, “Yes.”

“Have you?” He added after, selfishly hoping it would lead him to the picture the man held like the precarious nature of the silence that occurred between them, trying desperately to hold onto something that had already been broken. He could barely stand to look in the face of such strong emotion.

“Yes. Every day.”

“I think if someone got their heart broken every single day, they’d die of it,” Draco countered.

That’s what a fool was, wasn’t it? Somebody who let their emotions get the best of them. Somebody without the control to stop the onslaught of conflicting inner turmoil, so much so that it drove them towards insanity.

Lupin chuckled flatly. The happy sound was void of any semblance of joy. But how could such a bright, positive man become so desolate? The war changed people. It didn’t remake them.

“You don’t even know the half of it,” he said.

_For Salazar’s_—he cut his own thought off, reaching into his pocket and slapping a dozen galleons on the table to cover their drinks. The air was becoming too hot and stuffy, and combined with his inability to withstand any more of Lupin’s torturous words with the bar maid staring at them in the somber, inquiring way she was, he was about ready to burst with irritation.

He pulled Lupin from his seat. “I can’t do this here,” Draco grumbled, clutching his companion’s wrist and lugging him through the pub and out the doors.

With the undisclosed photograph still clutched in Lupin’s fist, they walked the barren streets of Diagon Alley. Neither of them spoke as Draco led them to the Leaky Cauldron and out into Muggle London, continuing at a steady, brisk pace.

Slowly, his frustration ebbed as the cool wind blew his hair into disarray, falling into his eyes. His unbuttoned charcoal grey robes blew softly behind him with each step. His heated skin cooled to a less temperamental level, and finally his chest expanded with easier breaths, becoming at ease here, enveloped in the darkness. It was easier to hide.

For several streets, they walked. Lupin looked inquiringly at Draco every so often, but he, mercifully, refrained from commenting. They came to a worn brick building, small in size compared to the towering high rises and large complexes that loomed in the distance. The quaint building was tucked between a corner charity shop and a community of townhouses all shut off for the night.

From his pocket, Draco produced a set of keys. He led Lupin past the front lobby and up the stairs to the third level, unlocking number 3C and stepping inside. He held the door open for Lupin, who followed him in and looked around.

Shame burned through him. He refused to take any dirty money from the family vaults after moving out of the Manor. Using what preciously limited money he had, he apparated to the Leaky Cauldron, sat down for a meal, and left with nothing but the clothes on his back and a book bag of personal items he refused to let go. He walked along the streets of London until, miraculously, he’d found this place. He paid for several months’ in advance, just to ensure himself a place to stay, and that was that.

The studio flat—shack was the more correct term, but Draco refused to call it that for the sake of his already-wounded pride—was a single room, not even the size of the smallest sitting room in the Manor, with a bathroom just to the side of the kitchenette. Cream walls remained barren.

A mattress with a Slytherin green duvet and a black, chipped nightstand he used for a dresser were pushed against the wall opposite the kitchenette, and beside it was a cluttered, rusty lounge piled high with empty take out bins and potions books with peeling coverlets. Draco shoved them off, sending them clattering to the floor, and used a quick spell to send the bins to the trash. Undetermined stains revealed themselves underneath. Hiding a grimace took all of his self-control, embarrassment burning his cheeks.

He flicked the corner lamp on and slumped onto the couch with a practiced ease, pretending as if he wasn’t thinking of cutting his losses right then and there and kicking Lupin out, never to be seen again. Perhaps he’d move to the Cornish coast where nobody could hear his screams over the crashing of the waves against the rocks. He could become a sailor and live on a boat where no one would think to find him.

After a whole thirty seconds of waiting for Lupin to follow, Draco decided he certainly wouldn’t rule it out. He still stood at the opened door, eyebrows furrowed and lips downturned as he processed the state of Draco’s flat.

“_Bloody _hell–you coming to sit or are you going to stand there like a twit all night?”

That, at least, seemed to shake Lupin out of whatever reverie overtook him. He shut the door carefully behind him and joined Draco on the opposite end of the lounge. In his fingers, he held the mystery photograph. When he looked up at Draco, he followed his eyes back to the yellowed paper.

“Your place reminds me of home,” Lupin admitted. “I haven’t been there in a long while, is all.”

Draco felt like he was walking on eggshells, suddenly. He replied, “Why don’t you go back?”

A wistful smile displaced Lupin’s harsh mouth. “Everything was gone, so I sold it. There was no point in keeping it anymore.”

Then, Lupin handed over the photograph—albeit half-hearted and reluctantly. Draco’s eyes widened, looking back at Lupin, who nodded for him so take it, so he did. Fingers as gentle as Lupin’s had been, he unfolded the photo once, afraid if he opened it any faster it would crumble apart in his hands and he’d break something in Lupin forever. An irrational thought it was, but he couldn’t shake the importance of it.

It was an old picture, like he had suspected. Lupin hadn’t had a mustache like he did now, bare face with cheeks still pudgy with youth. No lines creased his forehead or flattened his lips.

He was smiling—no, _grinning _at the camera, eyes crinkling with mirth at the corners in the place of age. Tawny hair sat like a wet mop atop his head, with a long strand escaping the gel that slicked the rest of his hair back, falling into his eyes. He wore the same sort of outfit, except his trousers hugged his legs and his Gryffindor red jumper fit to his torso. His body was loose; relaxed.

Wrapped around him, ghostly fingers clutching at Lupin’s chest, was a young Sirius Black.

In contrast with Lupin, his cousin’s hair was completely unrestrained, overgrown and unruly black curls hiding half his face from the view of the camera. Much like his hair, his wicked smile held nothing back, wolfish and exposing dazzling rows of teeth. A leather jacket paired with a plain white shirt and dark jeans hugged his lean, not yet gaunt body as it had been after his escape from Azkaban. The familiar stone of Hogwarts’ castle towered over them in the background, a few other kids roaming about, unawares.

Draco couldn’t say anyone looked more alive in a photo than the two of them did.

It was a Muggle photo, silent and unmoving, but nonetheless emanated rays of joy. Looking from the photo back up to Lupin, who looked back with solemn eyes, was jarring. Draco had a hard time imagining the horrors the boy in the photo had to endure in order to become the man that sat in front of him. He knew, but in that moment he could not believe, even with the wide pink scar that already marred his face.

He had been just a boy once, too, walking up to Hogwarts for the first time with a world of new, exciting possibilities awaiting him, not once imagining those possibilities could lead him here.

He handed the photo back. Lupin took it with an eager hand, unable to withstand being parted from it.

“He was the man that broke your heart,” murmured Draco.

Lupin’s mouth twisted. “He is. We bought a flat together, just like this one, in Wales where I grew up. We had all these plans to decorate it. He wanted to color the walls navy and paint it with stars and the moon out of pure irony. I told him we’d only do it if he enchanted the stars to glow, so that it’d never be dark. He was afraid of the dark, you see. One of the only things he’d been afraid of his entire life. Couldn’t seem to shake it, even as an adult.”

“A dead man can’t hurt anyone anymore,” Draco stated, grimacing at the bluntness of it. “Why are you so afraid?”

“A _dead man,_” Lupin pronounced carefully, as if the words burned his tongue, “is able to break my heart the way you are able to break yours. And I’m not afraid, not anymore. What is there to be afraid of, when the thing I was most afraid of happened right before my eyes? I was too late, Draco. And so were you. We were too late.”

Draco furrowed his brows in confusion, trying to separate Lupin’s words from the muddled mess in his head. _We were too late _rang in his head, the resignation in his voice hanging the words in suspended animation.

_I’m not afraid, not anymore. We were too late._

“What do you mean, Remus?” He asked quietly, scared of the answer he already knew clanging about in his skull with blaring red alarms _DANGER! KEEP OUT! _“What do you mean we were too late?”

Lupin looked paper thin, hands shaking as he clutched his right wrist. There were four crooked fingers on his left hand.

“I like that,” he said. “Remus. Nobody calls me that.”

“Nobody calls you by your name?” Draco couldn’t help but ask, and he felt terrible about it when Lupin’s frown wobbled. He simply shook his head.

“Oh. Remus, then.”

Remus nodded again and sighed. Though his gaze was on Draco, he looked as if the photo had never left his sight. As if it lived in the dark of his pupils, holding all of its memories and none of the joy.

“He–Sirius never knew how much I loved him. Not until it was too late. _I _was too late. We spent thirteen years apart, him and I. For a long time, I thought him a murderer and a traitor. Not just to me and our friends, but to the Order and the cause, all whilst he was rotting away in Azkaban with nothing to do about his innocence. Not until Harry came along—”

Draco flinched. It didn’t escape Remus’ notice, but he continued after only a brief hesitation.

“—He changed everything for us. We had a second chance. Except Sirius wanted to continue the fight he’d never gotten to finish, and I followed him. It was mad, but how could I deny him revenge when it was the very thing that had kept him from going mad in that–that _place_? And if I let him go, how could I deny myself the very thing I’d spent decades yearning for? I just couldn’t. And what did I do with that second chance we had been given?”

He hung his head. “I didn’t take it. A miracle, and I wasted it on a future that had never been guaranteed to begin with.”

The cadence of his words unnerved Draco, like Remus was trying to shake something loose in him that didn’t want to let go. Draco had gotten good at crumpling up and throwing his secrets in a waste bin to be thrown away and never thought of again. Yet, here Remus was, digging through it; searching for the very things Draco didn’t want to be found. He tried to swallow, but his mouth was dry and gritty like sandpaper down to the peak of his throat. Resignedly, he wished he hadn’t drunk the last of the tea in the cupboards.

“Why not?” He managed after a hard clear of his throat.

Abruptly, Remus pushed into his face only a breath’s width away, eyes suddenly desperate and pleading, begging him to understand. He gripped Draco’s shoulders like a vice, ragged and bitten nails digging into his skin. His voice dropped so low Draco felt the words vibrate in the air more than he heard them.

“Because, even after all those years, I still thought I was a monster.”

Draco stopped breathing.

The room was warm, but his fingers went numb. His torso ached. A scream crawled up his throat and lodged there. His forearm burned with the remnants of the Dark Mark imprinted down to his bone marrow. If only Remus knew how much of a monster he still truly was.

He ripped himself from Remus’ grasp, a frustrated cry strangled in his throat, stumbling to his feet towards the kitchenette on the other side of the room. His knees banged hard against the cabinets. Shaking fingers squeezed the edges of the laminate counter.

“You don’t get to do that,” he said, jaw clenching as he attempted to swallow down the burst damn of _Things _he’d filed away. “You don’t get to–to ply me with alcohol and tell me one of your pathetic sob stories with your hurt, werewolf puppy eyes and expect me to do the same.”

He whirled around to face Lupin; eyes blown wide with thinly concealed rage. “You don’t get to do that, Remus Lupin. I am not a doll to be played with, and I am _certainly _not to be a pawn in whichever game it is you wish to play!”

Draco paused to catch his breath, clenching his fists to hide the tremors. It crept into his voice as he asked, “Who was it? Was it Potter? Did he put you up to this, wishing to toy with me one last time for the last laugh? I don’t know if you’ve noticed, Professor, but he’s already gotten it.”

Remus, who all the while reclined on the lounge, a casual arm thrown over the lumpy back, seemed unfazed by the change in events, though emotion swirled in his eyes.

“No,” he said calmly, which _infuriated _Draco.

“Then _who?_”

The words tore from his throat, raw and vulnerable; everything he wasn’t. Everything betrayed him tonight. His body; his voice; his heart. Trust was a luxury he’d never been able to afford, but of all things he’d thought he could at least trust himself.

Draco stalked closer, a hand over the pocket where he kept his wand, ready. It was an old family wand, not at all like his hawthorn one, but it worked well enough. Remus peered up at him, folding the photo and placing it delicately on the arm of the lounge. He stood up, gaining a few inches on Draco and now peering down at him.

“Have you ever thought maybe there are people out there who aren’t out to get you, Draco? That care about you?” He asked softly.

_Why would I, when I’m alone?_

“Not once,” Draco replied instead, his locked jaw and white knuckles the only indications of the tempest inside.

Remus placed a tentative hand on Draco’s shoulder, like he first did in the pub, only this time he didn’t flinch away. He looked straight on, unyielding.

“There was a time in my life I didn’t think so, either. How could someone care about me, when once a month I was forced to chain myself up and pray it would prevent me from killing people?”

“We aren’t the same,” Draco ground out. “Stop trying to compare me to your curse, Lupin.”

“That’s not what I’m doing,” Remus retorted with the shake of his head. “The first time somebody truly cared about me after my curse was when I met Sirius. He was all fire and bravery, charging into the middle of a fight between me and a third year Slytherin that was more of a beating, because if I fought back, I would get expelled simply for existing as I did. I never fought back, not once, and each time Sirius would be there to clean me up. A year later, he became an illegal Animagus for me.”

“I don’t see your point.”

“My _point_ is that he cared about me, even if I didn’t ask for it, or look for it. There are people who care about me in spite of my affliction, and there are people who care about you in spite of yours.”

Remus’ eyes trailed down to Draco’s left arm, where the mark hid underneath his clothes. Draco bristled.

_I don’t deserve it._

“I don’t want it.”

“It doesn’t matter if you want it, only what you do with it once you have it,” Remus said. His gaze grew distant, as if he was once again looking into that photograph. It made Draco’s heart clench unwillingly.

“Do you know what I see here, Draco?” He continued; his eyes bright like glowing embers. “I see the second chance I never took. And you know what else I see? I see a boy who is still afraid of a war that ended a long time ago. I see a boy afraid of the man he is destined to become, a _good man, _Draco. I see a boy who is afraid of a man who is no longer his enemy.”

It was a multitude of disguised questions Draco had been avoiding for years. He felt weary down to his bones, heavy with pent-up emotion he’d locked up and buried with firewhisky rather than face them. A coward through and through.

“His testimony changed nothing,” replied Draco tightly. “I didn’t save him for selfless reasons.”

“It changed everything. Yet you still hold onto something that doesn’t exist anymore.”

“And what is that?”

Remus placed a rough hand over his chest, where his scars split across his skin. “What he did. You don’t believe he could forgive you for the things you’ve done, even though he may have done equally terrible things in the name of good.”

Draco felt sick again. The world spun on its axis, veering out of place once more. Unable to find stable footing, he dropped to the floor, pulling his knees to his chest and staring at the muddy brown carpet. An echo of pain pulsed through him, vividly aware of his scars.

His chin quivered.

_What if he looks at me and realizes I’m still the same monster I was? What if he saved me from Azkaban for nothing?_

_What if he looks at me and sees nothing?_

In a hushed whisper, he said, “It’s better this way.”

Remus sunk to the floor with him, mimicking his position. In the softness of the lamplight, he almost looked like a child. Youthful, as he had been with Sirius.

“Suffering is never the only option,” Remus replied, just as soft; as if being any louder would shatter the tentative trust Draco was placing in him. “You’ve served your sentence enough for several lifetimes.”

“And it’s not enough,” Draco croaked, digging his face into his knees and gritting his teeth so hard they almost splintered. “It’s not _enough_.”

An arm wrapped around him, and then Remus was at his side, holding the boy to his chest, shushing him as his body shuddered around a sob and Draco Malfoy began to cry. No noise escaped his mouth other than hushed whimpers.

His face twisted and contorted until Lupin’s grief became his grief, old wounds throbbing as if rabid, half-starved vultures pecked and bit at his skin, tearing bleeding chunks and inhaling them before they dove for more. They always wanted more, their hunger never sated.

Remus shuffled against him. He did something with his free hand that Draco couldn’t see with his face pressed against Remus’ chest. Shame coursed through him, but he was unable to control the quiet hiccups of his cries, wishing that he had been born anyone else, grew up as anyone else except the boy he did, caught in a battle between good and evil with no clear side.

He was too much a coward for the Dark Lord, but he was too cruel and horrible to ever be anything remotely good. In wars, there was no grey area, and thus here he was, a fucked up amalgamation of what he was groomed to be and the distant outline of the person he wanted to become.

Remus might be the only person who believed in him. In his goodness.

He thought he might love him—as an uncle. The theoretical uncle he hadn’t seen in years. He thought it might be easy after all, to care for someone who wanted nothing from him, just like he wanted nothing from him in return.

When Remus finished whatever he was doing, he wrapped his free arm around Draco and held him fiercely, refusing to let go even as Draco’s tears soaked through his jumper.

“I need you to listen to me, alright, Draco? Just for a minute.”

Reluctantly, Draco picked his head up, wiping his cheeks on his sleeve, and looked at Remus. His expression was solemn, his mouth firm. _You can trust me_, his amber eyes seemed to say. And he realized then that yes, he _could _trust Remus Lupin.

He nodded.

Remus smiled faintly. His arm still around Draco’s shoulder, he said, “In a few minutes, someone is going to knock on your door.

“Don’t be alarmed,” he hushed when Draco’s eyes widened. “I asked them to come here of their own free will. I’m going to get up and open the door, and when I do I need you to try your best to keep an open mind, can you do that for me?”

Draco hesitated a moment, but he had decided to place his trust in this man, so he nodded again.

“But why?” He asked.

The corners of Remus’ eyes crinkled with his smile. It was sad, but hopeful. “Because I think this person will be able to help you more than I possibly can.”

“I don’t need help. I’m not a charity case,” Draco protested weakly, sniffling.

“No, you’re not,” Remus agreed, “but for what it’s worth, you deserve the chance at a good life, Draco. Better than this one could ever give you.”

Draco’s words got stuck in his throat. He leaned forward once more and embraced Lupin tightly, conveying everything he felt through actions since his words failed him. In the back of his mind, he thought, _my father never held me like this_.

Not a minute had passed when a knock sounded at the door. Remus patted him on the back comfortingly and pulled away, standing up with a soft grunt of discomfort. He lingered in place for a moment, rubbing a soothing thumb over his knee, before approaching the door and pulling it open.

Draco stood up himself, running his hands across his trousers to smooth out any wrinkles. He was excruciatingly aware of the wetness on his face, along with undoubtedly reddened cheeks and nose, but he tried not to let his discomfort show.

“Thank you for coming,” Remus told whoever was at the door. Draco couldn’t see anyone behind his large frame. “I’ll leave you two to it. Give me a call if you need to.”

He looked over his shoulder as he stepped out the door. “Open mind, remember?” He reminded Draco, and then he was gone, and Draco got a look at the person on the other side.

He stilled, breath hitching.

He blinked away the last of the wetness from his eyes, chalking it up to vision impairment, but—no, they were still there.

Nobody moved for a long, painful moment.

“Er, hello, Draco,” he chirped, looking for all the world as if there was no place he’d rather be.

Draco’s heart tore. He was going to _murder _Remus.

“Potter,” he breathed.

**Author's Note:**

> i hope you enjoyed this monstrosity that was me needing to get my sad drarry/wolfstar feelings out but also needing to work on my horrible dialogue.
> 
> if you enjoyed this, please give a kudos and leave a comment, feedback is super appreciated!!
> 
> p.s. if you didn't like the cliffhanger and want a part 2, please let me know in the comments or on twitter @wnterwlf :)


End file.
